Tag Archives: Poetry

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

lick me here, swamp thing

05 Saturday Jul 2014

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waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing

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plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth

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it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved

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under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

ham-hocks and fish

29 Thursday May 2014

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“Give them pleasure — the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock

To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know

his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;

like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge

of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,

a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream

logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish

delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.

flaw

16 Friday May 2014

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welding of the soul. touch this arc-light, heat
on the rim blast bay gal jack the damned mouth

the sores heel dog pity those who must bleat
like sheep when they cum. i’ve gone down, round south

america, round the bend, the glory
and the hole. i’m venus-wise, pricked and pecked.

got scars on thars you wouldn’t believe me
if i showed ya. i’m more bolts than bones. wrecked

as a lover, wrecked as a friend. bragging
is a sign of flaw. the things that they made

me do. flesh let enter nanobot womb.
daughter to rust. son to rot’s fathering

maggots. you say that you want to get laid.
i am the empty chair, the empty room.

this is how i learned

16 Friday May 2014

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It all goes away. Ta. Evening after
evening after. Tee-Tee Ta. The Mantis

rubbing claws, cleaning her mandibles, her
lover’s weed, her root and roe. Green goddess,

Eater of Men, it’s how I learned to count:
Ta, Tee, Tee-Tee Ta. Your luminescent

charms. Light. Happiness. How you let him mount
you, then off with his head. Tee-Tee Ta. Scent

of the demon in heat. Mansbane. Conquest
of your mates. Shh, I’m counting. Ta. I give

myself. Tee-Tee Ta. I count. It’s my choice
to count. The beat of the heart at rest. Rest.

Counting as song. There’s nothing to forgive,
darling. And if I sing you are my voice.